


Laughed and Laughed

by adobe_beforeffects



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Body Horror, Drabble, Gen, Horror, One Shot, quick moment of self harm for sacrifical purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 17:56:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11295780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adobe_beforeffects/pseuds/adobe_beforeffects
Summary: Sometimes it takes a few failed attempts to make your dreams come true.(Written in response to the prompt "Something about how Sammy Lawrence became an ink person?".)





	Laughed and Laughed

The Ink Machine is screaming.

He watches as gallons of pure black ink gush out of the nozzle of the thing, straining the floor black and covering up the patches of blood that had soaked into the wood. It had made this noise the last few tries, of course - at this point, Joey was almost used to it.

The problem was that the last few tries hadn’t exactly been successful.

The machine seems to shudder and lurch, and something huge and gooey and black slides out from the nozzle, leaving trails of half-solidified ink clinging to the metal. The machine’s noise steadies to a dull pulsing thud, and Joey finds himself holding his breath as he watches the mass.

“Boris?" He tries after a moment, waiting for a response. A cold sense of dread settles in his stomach as he continues to watch the ever-growing puddle, and he licks his dry lips nervously. “…Sammy?"

The mass of ink suddenly lurches forward, grabbing at the side of the machine for support. The excess ink rolls down as the thing slowly tapes shape - globs of ink slowly refining into five fingers, then four. Something resembling a head and shoulders forms and a now-recognizable arm grasps for one of the cogs on the machine to pull itself upward, white pants and suspenders forming out of the sticky black ink making up the figure.

Joey wheels towards it, leaning forward in his chair, heart racing. _This is it._ It had taken so many tries, so many employees, so many sacrifices and promises to the Gods that he would supply them with whatever they wished for as long as they helped him make his dream come true, the dream he'd give up anything to achieve. And now it was finally, finally happening.

And then the dream ends.

Boris - no, not Boris, not quite yet - lets out a sharp, choked gasp of pain as his body suddenly stops forming correctly, the area where his legs should have been forming too fast, too sloppily. For every part that’s trying to form, there’s another one melting away back into the puddle. _There’s so much ink._ Joey’s not sure how much ink is needed for this, pints or quarts or gallons, but there’s too much.

There had been… so many failures. So many attempts at bringing Bendy and friends to life. So many times where things had seemed almost perfect only to fall apart at the last minute, dissolving back into puddles, into faceless screaming _things_. He had thought he had figured out the perfect candidate this time - unlike the others, Sammy Lawrence and Boris’ shared a natural love for music, and that bond would help the two become one. It had to. He wasn't sure how many more failures he could take.

Joey can barely breathe as he wheels over to the machine, panic taking over his usually calm demeanor. He pulls the spout off of the back of the machine, then the box cutter from his back pocket, leaning against the ink container for stability. The blade makes an angry red slash across his palm and he closes it, allowing extra blood to roll off his hand and into the pitch black ink below. It's not much of a sacrifice, but it's better than nothing.

_Please, just let this one wish come true._

Joey falls back into his chair, and the machine screeches, jolts, pumps out a fresh wave of thick black ink that coats the half-melted figure on the ground, then goes still. Joey realizes how tightly he's gripping his chair and he forces himself to relax his grip as the mass of ink on the ground slowly pulls itself - himself - forward until he's fully out of the puddle. Sammy collapses and Joey half expects him to melt away right there, but the form holds despite the ink dripping from it.

“Joey…" The voice is still Sammy’s all right, soft and deep and musical, but it’s tainted with pain and confusion. The former director weakly raises an arm out towards him, ink slowly dripping off of it and onto the floor. “What did... What did you... do… _creator?_ "

He’s not Boris, not even close. But he’s stable, and solid, and can still speak and think and do something other than scream like the others. His wish came true.

And Joey finally relaxes and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> Written on-the-fly in response to a prompt, following the theories that all the ink-based creatures are made from the former employees' corpses and Sammy was a failed attempt at making Boris.


End file.
